


victorious warriors win first and then go to war

by patho (ghostsoldier)



Series: the art of war [1]
Category: Far Cry 4
Genre: Accidental Benevolent Warlord Ajay Ghale, Alternate Ending, Crab Rangoon AU, Gen, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-10
Updated: 2015-03-10
Packaged: 2018-03-17 06:43:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3519281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostsoldier/pseuds/patho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Ajay Ghale makes friends and influences people, and the best long game is the one no one knows you're playing.</p>
<p>Set in the alternate ending.</p>
            </blockquote>





	victorious warriors win first and then go to war

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spacehussy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacehussy/gifts).



> The subject of "accidental benevolent warlord" Ajay came up, and I liked the idea far too much to let it end there.
> 
> [Originally posted on tumblr.](http://pathopharmacology.tumblr.com/post/111216193197/spacehussy-replied-to-your-post-what-do-you-think) For spacehussy, because this is totally her fault.

Ajay’s been in Kyrat for about three months now, and he still hasn’t figured out if he’s technically there of his own free will or not. It’s weird. The whole situation is really fucking weird.  _Pagan Min_  is really fucking weird. Took Ajay’s passport but gave him back his history, took Ajay’s phone but gave him an army in return. Ajay woke one morning to discover the entire contents of his old apartment neatly packed up in the courtyard, and Pagan was furiously threatening to have some hapless porter shot because he accidentally dented the corner of a box or something. It’s ridiculous.

Ajay quickly intervened on behalf of the porter, and then spent the rest of the day unpacking his things while trying to ignore the burning lump in his throat and the sting in his eyes. There weren’t nearly as many boxes as he would’ve expected and it  _hurt_ , in a really odd way. Did the sum total of his life in the states really amount to so little?

It’s…different here. Pagan is deeply terrifying, but he’s also kind of fascinating in a “car crash you can’t look away from” sort of way and Ajay, rather in spite of himself, finds himself liking the guy. A lot, actually.

Which probably says something pretty disturbing about his own psyche, considering: (a) Mom, (b) Lakshmana, and (c) all the really fucked up things Pagan does without any thought whatsoever, because holy  _shit_  is the dude messed up, and that’s on a good day. Ajay spent his first month or so walking on eggshells until he clued in to the fact that Pagan would blow up the fucking moon if Ajay asked; after that, things became a lot easier.

Namely, he realized it was easier to ask for forgiveness than permission. Amazing the kinds of things you can do when you have an entire army at your disposal.

Pagan wasn’t all that happy about the opium fields, although he seemed a lot more upset that Ajay nearly set himself on fire than because a good chunk of the country’s exports went up in flames. And when Ajay sent Royal Army soldiers out on hunting and gathering missions to feed the local populace instead of, well,  _terrorizing_  them, Pagan bitched at him about his inappropriate use of government resources until Ajay just smiled mildly at him over his bowl of butter tea.

“You’re the king, not me," he said. "All you have to do is countermand my orders and it all stops,” and that was the end of that.

Pagan didn’t say a word about the bell towers. Ajay has yet to determine if it’s because he doesn’t care, or because he’s given up on arguing about these things. Maybe Pagan secretly finds the endless propaganda announcements just as annoying as Ajay does.

Anyway, the Radio Free Kyrat guy is kind of entertaining, if a little overly obsessed with talking about shit. Ajay’s taken to leaving the radios all over the palace tuned into his broadcasts. For a while Pagan kept changing them back, but now he doesn’t bother. Mostly he just ruffles Ajay’s hair a lot, and occasionally makes vague threats about having Rabi Ray Rana assassinated.

He won’t, though. Ajay knows he won’t.

Somewhere along the line, late afternoons became “their” time. Sure, they sometimes get interrupted by news of Golden Path activities in the lowlands or urgent political whatever, but most of the time they just hang out on the terrace and watch as the sun’s slow descent paints the mountains rose and gold. They drink, and they talk about Mom and Ajay’s old life in the states and Pagan’s childhood in Hong Kong, and it’s…normal, and actually pretty nice, in a way Ajay tries not to think about too hard.

Today, they’ve forgone talking in favor of playing Words With Friends. Pagan’s somehow winning in spite of being at least four drinks ahead of Ajay, and Ajay’s only half-listening to the radio because he’s far too focused on finding a way to get the letter X into one of the triple-score boxes.

“And in other news,” Rabi Ray Rana’s saying, “Ajay Ghale, Kyrat’s own prodigal son and favorite local warlord, has prevented yet another—”

Ajay drops the phone. “Oh my god.”

“What?” Pagan sounds distracted, and Ajay glances over to see him playing on Snapchat while he waits for Ajay to finish his turn. “Don’t tell me little Bhopal fell into a well or something equally disastrous. I don’t care how much of a bleeding heart you are, you’re not allowed to go running off to save every goddamn person in this wretched country before we’ve finished our game.”

“No, that’s not—” Rabi Ray Rana is  _still_  going on about Ajay over the radio, and while it’s mostly complimentary he’s also used the word “warlord” like five times now and it’s kind of incredibly disturbing. “Since when did I become a  _warlord_?”

Ajay’s voice goes high on the last word and splinters apart, and that’s enough to get Pagan to glance up from whatever he’d been annoying Yuma with.

“Since I gifted you an army and you decided to take full advantage of your newfound military command?” He sounds honestly confused by the question. “You say ‘warlord’ like it’s a bad thing.”

“It is a bad thing!”

“Is it?”

“Well, yeah!” Ajay flounders, suddenly unsure. Pagan’s looking at him with an expression of benign and vaguely expectant amusement, which is how he looks at Ajay most of the time these days, and it leaves him feeling decidedly off-kilter. “I mean. Isn’t it?”

“Tell me, Ajay,” Pagan says. “What does the word ‘warlord’ mean to you, exactly?”

“It means I’m the kind of asshole who uses military firepower to stomp all over—ow!” Ajay rubs at the back of his head, scowling. Pagan had casually leaned across the space between them and swatted Ajay upside the head the way you’d thwap an errant child. Hard to tell what’s more annoying — that he did it in the first place, or that Ajay didn’t try to knock his hand away.

“You’re smarter than this,” Pagan says. Dark gaze burning a hole right through him, confusing and exciting and scary all at once. “ _Think_ , Ajay. No one refers to Yuma as a warlord. Why?”

“Because her soldiers are your soldiers,” Ajay says sourly. He retrieves his phone from the floor. “You say ‘jump’, her people wanna know how high.”

“Whereas  _you_ …” Pagan prompts.

“I know, I know.” Ajay glowers at his game, because easier to glare at that than think about the way Pagan’s  _looking_  at him. “I keep going off half-cocked and  _wasting valuable government resources_  on things you’d never in a million years allow if I actually asked and…”

The pieces slot into place one by one and Ajay looks up, stunned. “Holy shit. You—”

Pagan’s grin, slowly but surely widening over the course of their conversation, appears to have reached maximum shit-eating capacity. “See? I knew you were a clever one. Good job.”

“You’ve been setting me up!”

“No,” Pagan says, “no, you’ve been doing a rather nice job of that all by your lonesome.  _I_  certainly didn’t tell you to take your army and go rampaging off on goodwill missions, my boy. You did that all by yourself.”

He returns his attention to his phone. “I must admit, though, you won over the locals quite a bit faster than I expected you would. You’ve got a contrary streak a mile wide.”

“But…” Ajay stares at him, desperately confused. “But why?”

His phone pings and he looks down to see a picture of himself. It’s not the most flattering shot, unfortunately — it looks like Pagan took it when Ajay was freaking out about the radio thing — but it’s not the picture that gets Ajay’s attention. It’s the caption:  _long live the king_.

“Holy fucking shit,” Ajay says faintly.

Pagan leans over and clinks his glass against Ajay’s. His wide grin has faded into a narrow knife-slash of a smile, one no less terrifying than the expression that preceded it. His voice is very soft.

“Here’s to the most peaceful coup this bloody country will ever see,” he says. “Remember this, dear boy, if you remember absolutely nothing else I ever tell you: the best long game? Is the one  _no one knows you’re playing_.”

Three months, Ajay thinks. He’s been here for three fucking months and Pagan’s already planned out how Ajay’s going to overthrow him. A slightly hysterical giggle threatens to rise in his throat.

“Looks like I’ve got a lot to learn,” he croaks.

“Oh, not to worry.” Pagan’s eyes are  _burning_ , and his smile is as sharp and sleek as the leopards Ajay’s glimpsed sneaking through the underbrush. “I’ll teach you.”

Ajay gulps.

He is so fucked.


End file.
